


Keep Your Eyes Closed

by EdnaV



Series: (Don't) Sleep [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angst, Aspec Friendly, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, except that it isn't subtle, it's a subtle metaphor for being in the closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22820371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdnaV/pseuds/EdnaV
Summary: Crowley sleeps. Crowley wants to forget.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: (Don't) Sleep [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640497
Comments: 10
Kudos: 104





	Keep Your Eyes Closed

**Author's Note:**

> I published this fic more than a month ago, but I've edited it so much that it feels like a new one.
> 
> To the people who left kudos and comments: I hope you still like it. If you don't, please feel free to tell me to go to Hell. Or Heaven, since this is Crowley's point of view...

Crowley likes to sleep. To sleep is to tell the boss to take a walk and go to Heaven, _I’ll get the job done anyway because I’m brilliant_ — it’s Sloth and Pride with a tad of Wrath. 

To sleep is to forget, for a while. And sometimes Crowley feels like he remembers too much for his own good.

Crowley remembers his Fall. It still hurts. Whenever the weather’s changing, the scars itch and burn, and they remind him that They’ve cast him out.

Well, fuck Them.

Crowley remembers Hell. Whenever he has to report back to the Head Office, he spends the next week short-breathed, as if he were still crowded by the common demons _(someone’s changed the corridors again, very efficient torture, who did come up with it? Maybe I could try something like that, it could turn out to be a bad job well done),_ still exhausted by looking at his best _(or is it worst? Who knows? Who cares?)_ to show that he’s strong, so strong he can’t be bullied by Beelzebub _(as usual, ze needs to show ze’s in charge)_ and Dagon _(and she needs to show that ze needs her)_ and Hastur _(and he needs to show that he’s the toughest in there)_ and Ligur _(and they need to show that they’re no less than Hastur, because they are, and...)_

Well, fuck them too. Fuck them all.

So, Crowley sleeps. He tries to stop his overactive mind, for a few hours or days or years. He tries to escape his worst memories.

He tries to escape his best memories too. _Especially_ his best ones. They’re the ones that hurt the most. You can get used to pain, to humiliation, maybe even to fear, as long as you don’t think that anything good’s ever possible.

But Crowley knows that there’s something good in this world.

Crowley remembers every act of human kindness he’s ever witnessed. He remembers every clever human invention he’s ever seen. He remembers every sonnet, every bridge, every theorem and every painting; every play and every song; every sunny afternoon in St James’s Park and every menu that’s been served at the Ritz since 1906.

Crowley remembers everything about Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale. White hair, blue eyes, fluttering eyelids, those white wings shining in the sun _(he is so beautiful, so gloriously beautiful, is it Their Grace, or is it Aziraphale himself? No, not even They can create such beauty)._ And Aziraphale giving away his sword _(more of a rebel than I ever was, or I’ll ever be)._ And then, Aziraphale, trying not to break when the Heavenly Assholes order him to hurt human beings, or to just stand there, witness the cruelty and don’t protect the ones that he was charged to protect _(how can he bear that? At least my job are simple instructions that don’t change overnight)._ Maybe as a reaction, Aziraphale savouring the pleasures of this world _(so shy and eager at the same time, a Mystery and a Grace surpassing Theirs)._ And Aziraphale settling into their Arrangement, getting confident, teasing him _(no need to ask, angel, here I am, saving your friend’s play and saving you from this silly charade of a damsel in distress)._ And Aziraphale hurting him _(I can protect myself, angel, I don’t need you for_ that; _I need you for my life to be more than just existence)._ And Aziraphale trying to do the right thing, and Aziraphale who must’ve realised what they had, that it wasn’t just playful banter _(don’t angel feel this sort of things? I must’ve hidden it well, bravo me)._ And Aziraphale who’s a perennial fashion disaster _(don’t think about that cravatte that he used to wear in the 1960s. Don’t think of that night in the Bentley, that thermos. Forget about that, shut it away, hide it in a safe)._

Crowley closes his eyes, and he’s overwhelmed by Aziraphale. He almost hears Aziraphale’s hands fidgeting without pause. He almost tastes Aziraphale’s joy when the angel loses himself in the flavour of every drop of wine, in the perfume of an old volume, in the music that’s filling the concert room. He almost smells Aziraphale’s dare under the guise of full-body pouting. He definitely feels each one of Aziraphale’s side glances prickling his skin. _Even eternal damnation is not so bad, you could get used to it, if it means sharing the world with this angel,_ thinks Crowley.

And just as Crowley remembers that he loves Aziraphale, he remembers that he can’t love Aziraphale.

_They will come for him._

_They will come for me too._

_They will come for both of us._

Crowley closes his eyes, and he tries to empty his mind.

No such luck.

He tries to be rational. 

He bargains with his heartbreak. He makes a list of what he’s allowed.

He’s allowed the beauty of tiny moments. He’s allowed to exchange small temptations for miracles. He’s allowed to pay the bill after the angel’s moaned his way through the dessert. 

It’s the happy-ever-after that he can’t afford. 

_Forget about it,_ he reminds himself _. You’re one of the Fallen. You can’t forget that. You have to pay for your past by carrying it like a burden; you can’t dream about the future, it will always be beyond your reach._

It hurts, and it never gets better, but that’s what it must be. Crowley’s a demon, and a demon can’t dare to hope.

Crowley can catch a glimpse at everything that’s good in the world.

Crowley can steal a glance at Aziraphale.

Crowley can sleep.

He can try to forget everything — Aziraphale, his life, his love, his very existence.

 _Sleep, and be nothing,_ he tells himself.

 _It’s not so bad,_ he tells himself. _It’s Sloth and Pride with a side of Wrath._

Crowley sleeps, and he tells himself that he’s just being a demon.

You can’t afford to remember, when you’re running away from yourself.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't be shy, make me smile (I need it, after this angst...), leave a comment!


End file.
